Gift of G'Hanir
by fancymoose
Summary: The people of House Nightfury have long been the custodians of a vast and mysterious forest – one of the last refuges of the moon folk of ancient story. Night elves and otherworld dwellers have existed there side by side, separated by a thin veil between the realms and sharing a wary trust – until Lady Nightfury of Kalanaar gives birth to another child, and everything changes.
1. Chapter 1

_This cross-fiction tale, inspired by author J. Marillier and Irish Mythology, takes place between 11,000 - 12,000 years before the Dark Portal, in World of Warcraft. The story follows members of the Nightfury family and other characters on a daring adventure through pockets of the Emerald Dream to recover something precious that was lost._

 _It is the story of Feyawen finding her womanhood, strengthening family bonds, and discovering her love and affinity for nature, as well as her respect for magic. I hope you enjoy. Each chapter will consist of three small passages of the story, for easier grab and go reading._

* * *

 **I**

Her fingers numb with cold, she fastened a length of silver-embroidered rope around the cedar torii and murmured a prayer to whatever spirits might be listening. "When the spring comes, please don't let my mother die." Another rope, lower on the smooth rocks of the scintillating moonwell. "And please, help her to heal." A third, slipped between the branches of a nearby foxglove tree. "And if you can, make this year's spring ritual abundant. Mother wishes to see the soaring seeds one last time…"

Feyawen shoved her hands back into her mooseskin mittens and closed her eyes a moment to gather her thoughts. The lone moonwell, which stood in a clearing within the great forest of Kalanaar, was hung about with many offerings: rope, feathers, scraps of hide, wind-chimes and beads on strings. Such solitary shrines were known to be gathering places for spirits. Until her mother had grown so sick from arcane magic, she had come every day with a token to place on the tree. Now Feyawen carried out the ritual in her place.

It was time to return home. Her sister, Enora, was getting married the following evening and she had a lot to do. Feyawen was slightly Enora's elder, but she was the one to deal with the household responsibilities her mother was too tired to deal with any longer. It made sense. Enora was going. Tomorrow after moonrise she and her new husband would be riding back to his home in the south and she would have her own household to manage. Feyawen was staying. For the foreseeable future her life would be taken up with supervising serving people, ordering and checking supplies, solving domestic disputes and keeping an eye on the little ones in the household, Wenna and Heenia. She had not expected this, but then, none had expected Mother to conceive another child so late in life. Now that little Anwen was born, the household was on edge. Her mother called the baby a gift from the goddess. The rest tiptoed around the subject, fearful of speaking the unpalatable truth. Women of her age, particularly arcane practitioners of her age, did not deliver healthy babies. Most likely, within two turnings of the moon she and the child would both be dead.

"Shaha lor'ma," Feyawen said over her shoulder as she walked away from the moonwell and foxglove tree and into the shadows of the night forest. It was best to keep on the good side of the Moon People, whatever one's opinion of them. The forest of Kalanaar was as much their home as it was the Nightfury's. Long ago, House Nightfury had been entrusted with the task of keeping the region safe for all of them. This was one of the last refuges of the ancient races anywhere in Kalimdor, for the great forests were being felled for highborne cities and the practice of arcane had spread widely, displacing druids, oracles, priestesses and spirits. The old faith was practiced only in the most protected and secret pockets of the land. Kalanaar, southwest of the night elf city Hajiri, was one such place.

The path home wound its way through dense oak woods before descending to the lake shore. On another day Feyawen would have enjoyed going slowly, drinking in the myriad shades of blue and green, the delicate music of birdsong, and the dappled light on the forest floor. Today she made haste, for by moonrise the house would be full of guests and a long list of tasks lay before her.

* * *

 **II**

The oaks towered above, their mossy boles glowing in the filtering sunlight. Feyawen's feet were quiet on the soft earth of the forest path. Between the trees, on the very edge of sight, moved evanescent beings, blue orbs of light, orbiting between the trees. In the rich litter of debris that lay around the roots of the great oaks tiny creatures stirred, scuttling, creaking, whispering. The forest of Kalanaar was home to many. Fox, stag and hare, salamander, woodpecker and dragonfly lived harmoniously with the more otherworldly inhabitants of the wood. It would be strange for Enora to leave all this, Feyawen thought. Her new husband's holding shared a border with the southwestern part of Father's land, but Feyawen knew nowhere would be like Kalanaar.

As soon as she got back to the house she would make sure her younger sister was prepared, and the little ones had their hanboks ready for the feast. She'd find the opportunity to speak with her father alone so she could see how he was; she knew her mother's tiredness was troubling him. She hoped to reassure him. And she'd ease her mother's mind by letting her know that everything was under control. She should speak to her druid brother as soon he arrived, she thought. Faeron needed to be asked if the plans for the spring ritual and handfasting suited him, and he would want a place to retreat to. Faeron was acutely uncomfortable with crowds. Besides, he sometimes brought his stormcrow with him. Folk found the bird unsettling.

The path narrowed, snaking between groves of closely growing elders whose narrow trunks formed graceful, bending shapes like those of leaning dryads. The foliage stirred in the breeze and Feyawen felt suddenly cold. Someone was watching her; she sensed it. She glanced around but could see nobody. "Who's there?" she called. There was no reply, only the whisper of leaves and the cry of a bird passing overhead. Her flesh crawled. Kalanaar was extremely well guarded; her father's wardens were expert. Besides, the forest protected its own. Nobody came in by stealth. If a member of the household was out there, why hadn't anyone answered her call?

Something moved under a stand of massive oaks about a hundred paces from the track. Feyawen froze, eyes narrowed. Nothing was stirring. She took three more steps along the path and halted again, her skin prickling with unease. Something was there. Not a fox or a stag – something else.

* * *

 **III**

Feyawen stood like a statue, staring into the shadowy depths beneath the trees, but she could discern nothing between the shifting patterns of light and shadow. Under the broad branches of the oaks vast distances seemed to open up, as if there existed doorways to a realm far wider than the expanses of the forest might allow. It was said that these woods were a doorway to another world. Traveling through such a doorway would be both wondrous and perilous, for time passed differently there. A person might spend one night there to find a hundred years had flown by in the natural world. Or one might linger for half a lifetime among the moon folk and return to one's own world to discover less than one season had passed. It was wisest not to stray into such corners of the forest.

Something in the darkness drew Feyawen's eye, not a movement, more of a presence. Was that a man standing against the trunk of a great tree, a man wrapped in a hooded cape of shadow gray?

"Who is there?" Feyawen called. "Come out and account for yourself!"

Even as she spoke it occurred to her that if anyone obeyed she was ill equipped to handle the situation. She had no skills in combat and not so much as an herbalist knife. She picked up her skirt and ran.

For some time the only sound was the rapid beat of her footfalls on the hard forest path. Or were there two sets of footsteps? She ran faster, and felt whoever was following speed up to match. Her breath came in sharp, cold gasps. Her heart hammered in her chest; her skin was clammy with fear. The trees seemed to jerk and spin, and the spaces between them widened invitingly. "No!" Feyawen protested. "I won't!"

A voice spoke directly into her mind, like a dark whisper. _Feyawen!_ She tripped over a rock and sprawled full-length on the path, her head swimming with panic. A moment later she realized this had not been the taunt of a pursuer, but something else. She sat up, brushing hair out of her eyes, and knew immediately that if someone had been following before, that person was gone now. The forest around her was peaceful. Birds sang, and leaves rustled in the cool breeze. The path led straight onward. Above the canopy the moon and stars shone on a perfect spring night.

Feyawen took several deep breaths and shook her head, convincing herself that she imagined the voice. Her dangui was ripped and her left knee had a bloody abrasion. She screwed her eyes shut for a moment, willing what had just happened into a closed corner of her mind. It was a complication she would have to deal with later.

She picked up her pace again. Soon the high roof of the tree lodge where her family lived could be seen in the distance above a soft shawl of trees. Her home was a stronghold built into the forest to keep out enemies of the empire. The uncanny woodlands that surrounded it and the broad lake that lapped at its feet were in themselves deterrents to armed assault. Her father had established fortified settlements in strategic areas of the forest, each headed by a warden with his own complement of guards. This was necessary, because Kalanaar was situated between two warring ancient night elf families.

Feyawen's mind went back to the figure she spied beneath the trees. Could a spy have succeeded in coming to the heart of the forest unimpeded? What could such a person hope to accomplish by that? She shivered, imagining herself abducted and held hostage, the price of her safe release being her father's agreement to relinquish control of Kalanaar, or something worse. Perhaps long walks alone are not a good idea, she thought. People did get kidnapped. She recalled a terrible story about a girl who had been taken by frost trolls. By the time her family had decided to comply with the trolls' demands, she had been killed and eaten. The tale went that her bones had been thrown back over the wall of her father's home.

With her mind on this, Feyawen walked out from under the trees and straight into a big man in a gray cloak. A pair of strong hands gripped her shoulders hard, and she screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

_This cross-fiction tale, inspired by author J. Marillier and Irish Mythology, takes place between 11,000 - 12,000 years before the Dark Portal, in World of Warcraft. The story follows members of the Nightfury family and other characters on a daring adventure through pockets of the Emerald Dream to recover something precious that was lost._

 _It is the story of Feyawen finding her womanhood, strengthening family bonds, and discovering her love and affinity for nature, as well as her respect for magic. I hope you enjoy. Each chapter will consist of three small passages of the story, for easier grab and go reading._

* * *

 **Ⅳ**

The man let go abruptly. She stepped back, ready to bolt past him for the safety of home.

"Ouch," said someone in a lazy drawl, and Feyawen saw that there was a second man standing behind the first with his fingers in his ears. "That was loud. You've evidently lost your touch with the ladies, Nyrell."

Nyrell. Feyawen drew a shuddering breath and looked up, realizing that the man who had seized her had been the very one whose arrival at Kalanaar she had been keenly awaiting since her uncle Theidan had sent word he would be here for the wedding and spring celebration. She could think of better circumstances under which they would meet again.

"Nyrell!" Feyawen said, smiling awkwardly. "Welcome back! I was thinking about something else and you startled me. So Theidan has arrived?" She felt foolish. All of Theidan's men wore gray cloaks, the better to blend in with the hues of the north. Both Nyrell and the other warrior wore them. Both had the markings, tattoos around their cheeks and arms suggestive of particular creatures – Nyrell's a wolverine, the other man's a fox – that were worn as both mark of individuality and badge of brotherhood by every member of Theidan's fighting band.

"We got here not long ago," Nyrell said. He was regarding Feyawen quizzically, and she wondered if he had actually forgotten her since last spring, when he had come to Kalanaar as part of her uncle's escort and had seemed to take a particular interest in her. "I didn't mean to scare you. Is everything alright?"

He was just as good looking as she remembered: tall and broad shouldered, with a strong-boned face, well-kept green hair and friendly eyes. He was by far the most handsome of Theidan's men, Feyawen thought. Theidan was a leader of elite warriors. He ran an establishment that offered training in all aspects of combat, and his personal guards were the best of the best. As her father's heir, Theidan spent part of every year at Kalanaar and always brought a complement of five or six guards with him. The other man was staring at Feyawen. She opened her mouth to answer Nyrell's question, but the other man spoke first.

"This has to be one of Theidan's multiplicity of female relatives – the blinding white of that hair confirms it. Now, which one is it? Not the baby, unlikely the old crow, and she can't possibly be the young lady getting married tomorrow. I deduce it's the one you've mentioned more times than is altogether appropriate, Nyrell. What did you say she had a talent for? Or, that's right, housewifely skills, washing and cooking, that kind of thing." He gave an ostentatious yawn. "Forgive me, but I can't imagine anything more uninteresting."

He might as well have smacked Feyawen across the face. She struggled for a response.

"Jarryn!" Nyrell had flushed a deeper shade of purple. "Please ignore my friend," he added, turning toward Feyawen. "I keep trying to train him to the social niceties but he continuously fails to grasp them."

"We're warriors, not courtiers." Jarryn spoke with studied weariness. "I don't need social niceties on the battlefield."

"You're not on the battlefield, you're a guest in the home of a respected lord," Feyawen snapped, unable to control her annoyance. "We maintain a basic level of good manners here. Perhaps my uncle was so busy giving you a run-down of our personal characteristics that he neglected to mention that."

Jarryn looked through her.

"Feyawen, I'm mortified by my friend's rudeness," Nyrell said, offering her his arm. "His name is Jarryn, and like me, he's from Darkshore. Theidan left him back on the island last year, and perhaps that's where he should have stayed. We're so sorry if we've upset you."

"Speak for yourself," said Jarryn.

Feyawen wasn't sure she wanted to introduce herself to such a disagreeable individual, but she was the daughter of the house, and she had better at least go through the motions. "I'm Feyawen, first daughter of Lord Adanion and Lady Solivyra," she said tightly. "Welcome to Kalanaar. I'm surprised to see you down here." The lake shore was at some distance from the lodge, at the foot of a sloping sward with the forest to either side. If they'd only just arrived, they should surely have been unpacking gear and settling in.

"Jarryn wanted to walk by the water," Nyrell said." You're still looking upset, Feyawen. I assure you, Theidan speaks nothing but good of you and your family, and we're fully conversant with the rules of Lord Adanion's house. I apologize on Jarryn's behalf for his ill-considered words. It's all sound and no substance with him."

"Such a comment seems somehow inappropriate from a bard," Jarryn said, gazing out across the lake as if he were not even marginally interested in the conversation.

Last spring and summer Nyrell had once or twice been persuaded by his fellow warriors to play the lute for the house after supper. He was a talented musician, which had struck Feyawen as surprising. Theidan's men were fighters by profession. The essence of a bard's art was creation, a warrior's destruction. It seemed to Feyawen that doing both might leave a man's mind full of conflicting questions.

"I hope you'll play for us again while you're here," Feyawen said.

Nyrell smiled, revealing the dimple at the corner of his mouth. "I might," he said, silver eyes dancing.

"If you look at Nyrell like that, he'll certainly perform for you," Jarryn said. "He's all too ready to woo likely women with a well-crafted love song or two. Just don't take him seriously, that's my advice."

"In the unlikely event that I think your advice may be useful, I'll ask you for it," Feyawen said in what she hoped was a quelling tone. "And you can keep your personal remarks about my family to yourself. If I hear such comments from you again I'll…"

"You'll what?" His brows arched. "Tell your father? Slap me on the cheek? Run off and cry?"

"Stop it, Jarryn!" Nyrell looked mortified. "He doesn't mean a word of it, Feyawen. Now, may we escort you back to the house?"

"In a moment," Feyawen said, then turned back toward Jarryn. "I'll ask Theidan to send you away immediately," she told him, though she knew she could not readily expect her uncle to accommodate such a request. There were always strategic reasons for the deployment of his men. That applied even if they were accompanying him to a family wedding. "I know what high standards he sets for his personal retainers. It's not just a skill in weapons or tracking or observation. It's the way you live your whole life. If you're as rude as this to everyone, I can't imagine why he's kept you. You must have some quality that's completely invisible to an outsider such as myself."

Feyawen expected a barbed retort, but Jarryn simply shrugged. As they walked back to the lodge Nyrell kept Feyawen engaged in conversation about music, and Jarryn fell into a deep silence.

* * *

 **Ⅴ**

Enora was in the chamber she and Feyawen had shared since they were little girls. Although their house was a fortress, its interior was comfortably fitted out, with many private rooms. Wenna and Heenia shared the bedchamber next door. After tomorrow Feyawen would have this one all to herself.

Her sister was sitting on her bed, her head in her hands, crying. Her hair was a mess. She and Feyawen had inherited their mother's chaotic curls, which could be striking if tended with care, but had a tendency to go wild at the least provocation.

Enora sobbed out something about her betrothed thinking she was ugly and deciding he did not wish to marry her after all, which Feyawen took to be her worst fear about tomorrow.

"Nonsense," Feyawen said, sitting down beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders. "We have almost a whole day before the hand-fasting. There's plenty of time to fix your hair." The long list of other things Feyawen had to do flashed through her mind, but for the moment she ignored it. "A sprinkle of lavender water, some careful plaiting, that's all it needs."

"We don't have a whole day," Enora pointed out. "There's the feast tonight, and the dancing. And now Theidan and his men are here…"

Perhaps the tears were not all related to her appearance. Enora did tend to make everything into a drama, but she was genuinely upset.

"Enora," Feyawen said firmly, "come sit by the mirror. The sooner I start working on your hair, the likelier it is you can be your beautiful self for tonight's festivities."

"I can't possibly make an appearance for the feast," Enora muttered as she settled before the mirror. She pinched her cheeks in an attempt to darken their purple hue. "I look completely washed out. I should never have chosen green for the wedding gown. I wonder if it's too late to-"

"Goddess' curse!" Feyawen exclaimed in horror, catching sight of herself in the bronze mirror over her sister's shoulders. Jarryn's comment about her obviously not being a bride made complete sense now. Her hair was even frizzier than Enora's and had leaves and twigs in it. After her headlong sprint in the cold, her cheeks wore the flush her sister was aiming for. Her eyes were flush too, and so was the tip of her nose. The rip in her dangui showed not only her grazed knee but also a considerable length of leg. It was no wonder Nyrell had given her a funny look as she came out of the forest.

"What?" demanded Enora, diverted from her woes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Feyawen growled as she used the comb to separate her sister's hair into sections. It would take a great deal of work to get her mop under control, but then she'd had plenty of practice. "Unless you count the fact that I just bumped into Nyrell looking like this." She imagined Nyrell and Jarryn were probably laughing about it together right now.

"Oh, so Theidan did bring him again? That's wonderful news, Feyawen. I know how much you like him. I bet Nyrell asked if he could come. He seemed quite keen on you last year. And he's so suitable. I mean, Nyrell doesn't quite have the pedigree that my fiancé does, but he is a Lord's son, and I know father would like an alliance in the west. Just think, Feyawen, we could both be married in the same year!"

"Nyrell may be suitable husband material," Feyawen said grimly as she pinned up a strand of Enora's hair, "but I won't be marrying him any time soon. Or anyone, for that matter." For a moment she had basked in her memories of last year, when Nyrell had walked in the garden with her and played the harp with her and generally gone out of his way to talk to her. That had been before her mother conceived her child. Now everything was different, and it didn't matter whether she liked Nyrell or he liked her, because she knew she would not be free to marry for a long time, if ever. "I'll have to stay here, Enora, you know that. Even if everything goes well for mother, she'll be weak and tired for a while. She'll need me. And if things go wrong…" There was no need to spell it out. "Never mind," Feyawen said with forced cheerfulness. "I've certainly wrecked my chances of making a good impression on Nyrell today, anyway. He had the most awful friend with him. The rudest man I've ever had the misfortune to clap eyes on."

Something had changed in Enora's expression. Feyawen met her eyes in the mirror. "Are you feeling nervous? About…well, about the wedding night and all that?"

"A bit," Enora said. "Ouch, that hurts, Feyawen! But not nervous enough to cry over it. It's not as if my betrothed and I haven't…That is to say, there have been certain things…I'm pretty sure I'll like it, once I get used to it."

"You're lucky," Feyawen said, combing steadily. "The most advantageous marriage our house could ever have dreamed of for one of his daughters, and you actually like him enough to want to share his bed."

"Your time will come."

"I expect father will find some ghastly old man for me, someone who happens to be useful as an ally." As an attempt at humor, it sounded unconvincing even to Feyawen.

"He wouldn't do that, Feyawen," Enora said seriously. "You know he wouldn't have insisted on my match if I didn't like the man. And given what his connections can do for our house, that was remarkably good of him."

"True." Feyawen didn't think her father would be needing to deal with prospective suitors for her. Whatever happened with her mother and the newborn, she would not be able to resume her duties around the house for a while. If the worst occurred, Feyawen must be prepared to take on the domestic management of Kalanaar for her father's lifetime. Although she was one of four children, there was no doubt that this particular job would fall to her.

* * *

 **Ⅴ I**

Feyawen usually spent time with her father every evening in his small council room, talking over the day's events. She would bring him up to date on the domestic affairs of the household and he would tell her about his discussions with neighboring lords, his decisions in relation to their outlying settlements and their free tenants, his purchases of elk or his plans to travel to councils and gatherings. Sometimes they'd talk about the conflicts that beset their region, usually involving the warring branches of rival kaldorei houses or trolls from the north. They'd been doing this since long before Solivyra's pregnancy. In the past she had often made a third in their conversations. Now that she was so unwell she had neither the energy nor inclination for such talk, so it was just the two of them. Enora had never been interested in such matters.

Feyawen's father often told her she had a good head for strategy. It was not especially common for lords to consult their young children on weighty issues, Feyawen knew, but then her father was no ordinary lord. It seemed to Feyawen that even if she had had more brothers, her father would still have trusted her and valued her opinions, as he did her mother's. Perhaps it came from his having grown up with a twin sister who had been unafraid to make bold decisions in her own right. Perhaps it was partly because he had become lord at such a young age, and had relied heavily on Solivyra's support – she had been his childhood sweetheart and they had married young.

Knowing there would be no opportunity for their usual talk tonight, with the celebration supper to be followed by music and dancing, Feyawen seized a chance to speak to him in the middle of the evening, waiting until the two southern lords he had been talking to left the council chamber, before slipping in.

Her father was sitting with chin on hand, a document before him on the table. He was staring into space, his eyes distant. There were silver threads in his dark hair now, and lines on his face that had not been there before her mother conceived her child. Her father was known as a strong, wise leader, a decisive man who knew how to be tough but always fair. Right now he looked exhausted and despondent. His two sabers provided silent companionship, one with her muzzle resting on his knee, the other lying across his feet. They lifted their heads as Feyawen came in, then lowered them again.

"Father," Feyawen said, closing the door behind her and shutting out the sound of chattering voices from the hall. "I wanted to see if there was anything else you needed done. All the arrangements are in place for tonight's feast and for tomorrow's ritual. Most folk arrived now. Faeron will be here in the morning, Theidan says – apparently he was called to attend to a sick child in our northern settlement as they passed through, so Theidan left three men with him and came on with the rest. All the guests are accommodated. The elk have been seen to and the wardens have found space for the grooms and attendants. But there's no sign yet of the two northern lords you've invited."

"Mm," murmured her father, and his lips tightened.

"You think they're not coming? Not even sending representatives? That would be extremely discourteous."

"I hoped they would come, Feyawen. I extended the invitation to those two because, of all the leaders of the north they seem the most open-minded and fair. And with their influential neighbor away from home I thought that they might be prepared to sit at table with Enora's betrothed just for the two days of the festivities. It seems I was wrong. They're unhappy about the marriage. Angry, most likely."

Feyawen could see he was deeply troubled, and decided she would not mention shadowy presences following her in the forest, or indeed rude young men insulting her; not while he had that look on his face. "Father, this is very serious, isn't it, this difficulty with the northern lords?"

He motioned to the bench beside him and she sat down, realizing that she had been on her feet all day and was tired.

"I'll deal with it after the wedding," he said. "Yes, it's serious, but Theidan's here now and we'll devise a strategy. You look a little tired, Feyawen. This is a busy time for you. And you must have mixed feelings, with Enora going away."

"I'm fine, father." She managed a smile. "I'm getting used to all this. It's one less worry for mother if I make sure everything is the way she would want it to be."

There was a short silence. The unspoken thought hung between them: that Feyawen's mother might never again take up the reins of the household; that she might not be with them for very much longer.

"I wish the wedding could have been later," Feyawen said, remembering how pale and weary her mother had looked when she went up to see her earlier. "She gets tired so easily. I suggested she might leave supper early."

"I'll be glad when Faeron gets here and can give us his expert opinion on your mother's condition," her father said, rubbing his eyes. "I have to say, Feyawen, that although this is a wonderful marriage for Enora, I, too, wish the timing could have been different. It's too much for Solivyra right now, even with you handling the arrangements so efficiently. She seems…" He broke off, unwilling to put his thought into words.

Feyawen laid a hand on his shoulder; he covered it with his. "I know, father," Feyawen said quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

_This cross-fiction tale, inspired by author J. Marillier and Irish Mythology, takes place between 11,000 - 12,000 years before the Dark Portal, in World of Warcraft. The story follows members of the Nightfury family and other characters on a daring adventure through pockets of the Emerald Dream to recover something precious that was lost._

 _It is the story of Feyawen finding her womanhood, strengthening family bonds, and discovering her love and affinity for nature, as well as her respect for magic. I hope you enjoy. Each chapter will consist of three small passages of the story, for easier grab and go reading._

* * *

 **VII**

Nobody would have known, at suppertime, that Lord Nightfury of Kalanaar bore such a weight of anxiety. Feyawen's father's strong features were calm, his smile convincing as he presided over the festive meal. To accommodate their many guests they had four tables laid, one for family on a dais at the side of the hall, the others set crossways in the main part of this chamber, the biggest and grandest in the lodge. Embroidered hangings decorated the wooden walls; lamps cast warm light over their bright colors. A fire crackled on the hearth, for the spring evenings could be chill here.

When Theidan was with them he generally sat at Lord Nightfury's left hand, with Lady Nightfury on the right. This was in recognition that he was the lord's heir and would one day be lord of Kalanaar. Tonight he had ceded his place to the groom, the new son-in-law, and was sitting beside Enora, opposite Feyawen. It was easy to like Theidan. He was a sturdily built man with close-cropped white hair, steady grey eyes and a swirl of facial tattooing that was subtly suggestive of an owl's plumage. He had always been kind to the girls, though they were lightly in awe of him. Theidan was older, of course; a century or two the senior of their eldest brother, Faeron. He was a seasoned battle leader and greatly respected among fighting men.

The lords of the region did not view Theidan with quite such universal admiration. As the closest male kin – eldest, and Lord Nightfury's half-brother – he was the rightful heir to Kalanaar. But his father had once been a fearsome outlaw, and the local leaders had long memories.

Feyawen's gaze moved from Theidan to Enora, who was seated beside their mother. Her sister looked lovely. There was no trace of her earlier tears. Feyawen had persuaded her to put her hair into a braided, upswept style, and it made her look at least two decades older and quite elegant. The groom couldn't take his eyes off her, and the glances she gave him from under half-lowered lashes showed how much she liked his admiration.

Their mother was pretending to eat, but she didn't fool Feyawen. Their father kept glancing at her, no doubt seeing what Feyawen did: the shadows under her eyes, the waxen pallor of her skin, the strained smile as she tried to concentrate on something Enora's fiancé was telling her. Aware that the groom's sister, seated on Feyawen's other side, was looking at her oddly, Feyawen plunged into conversation. "Your household musicians are very good," she said. "The fellow on the flute, especially."

"My brother only hires the best." His sister cast an assessing look around the hall and paused as her eyes fell on Nyrell, who was seated with several other men clad in the blue grey of Theidan's personal retainers. Her expression warmed; Feyawen could see she found his looks as pleasing as she did. "My brother understands that most households in these parts haven't the resources to keep a permanent band. I suppose Lord Nightfury needs to fall back on the wandering bards. It's a matter of luck whether you get a good one or some fellow with no talent at all."

"Of course," Feyawen said, swallowing her irritation, "we do have two druids in the family. They're handy for a little storytelling after supper." Feyawen saw a smile pass across Faeron's face. Her eldest brother was the spiritual leader of their community, having become so following his schooling in their capital, Hajiri, where he became devoted to Elune's teachings. He maintained a keen interest in strategic matters and came to Kalanaar regularly to advise their father.

"As for wandering bards, my uncle has a talented musician among his men," Feyawen went on, glancing at Theidan, who had his close friend Eyelir, an amiable, violet-haired man, standing on guard behind him. He had one warrior stationed by each door as well. Even in this place that was his second home, Theidan took no chances. What he did made him desirable as a friend to the wealthy and powerful. It also made him a target.

"Oh?" queried the groom's sister.

"We might prevail upon Nyrell to sing and play later," Theidan said. "Our bride-to-be loves the harp. She plays well herself."

This was a slight exaggeration, since Enora had never worked hard enough on the exercises required to build up her technical skill. Theidan's compliment had brought a blush to her cheeks. She did look lovely. Since they were almost exactly alike, Feyawen had been careful to dress plainly tonight so Enora could be the one to shine. Her gown was a smoky blue with a gray overdress embroidered in white. Her hair was braided into a single tight plait, it's only adornment a spring of wild berries.

"Thank you, Theidan." Enora's smile was a touch tremulous.

* * *

 **VIII**

Feyawen coaxed their mother from the hall and shepherded her up to bed as early as she could. Her maid went off to brew an herbal drink, and Feyawen sent another serving woman to fetch warm water.

"I'll stay until they get back," Feyawen told her mother as she sat down heavily on her bed and shook off her shoes.

"Thank you, Feyawen. In fact, I'm happy to have a little peace. Anwen has been restless. I think she is eager to join the celebrations," she said. Feyawen had become practiced at hiding her fear in front of her mother, a skill she had, ironically, learned from her mother. She had watched her dealing calmly with one household crisis after another over the years and she had picked up her knack of covering up any unease she felt with a look of cheerful competence.

"Mother, you didn't eat anything at supper. I'll have some bread and fruit sent up from the kitchen for you."

"There's no need to fuss, Feyawen." There was a trace of her old briskness in her tone. "The goddess wanted this daughter born, I've known it from the first. Why else would She give me another chance now after all these years?"

"You should rest, all the same. Would you like me to keep you company until you sleep? It's not as if this is the first time I've ever heard a band, after all. And it's Enora's night, not mine."

Something must have shadowed Feyawen's face or darkened her tone.

"Do you wish it was yours, Feyawen? Are you unhappy about being left behind?" She settled obediently against her pillows, but her eyes were shrewd as they examined Feyawen's face.

Feyawen sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her hands. "The fact Enora and I are sisters doesn't mean we want the same things in our lives, mother. I am happy to stay at home for now. There's plenty of time."

"You're close to the same age I was when I wed your father," her mother said with a faint smile. "But, of course, Adanion and I had known each other since we were children. There was a time when I thought we would never be together, and my heart almost broke, Feyawen. Some folk say that kind of love burns itself out, that it cannot endure the trials and tests of ordinary life. But that isn't true."

There was a faraway look in her eyes now. Feyawen knew what she was not saying aloud: that her mother's longing to give Lord Nightfury this fourth child had cast a shadow over their life together, and that now, at last, she believed it was about to be lifted. "I hope Enora and her betrothed will find the same kind of happiness in time," she went on. "They do seem very fond of each other already. Now here's the maid, so off you go, Feyawen. I see that charming Nyrell is in Theidan's party again this year. He wasn't the only young man who had his eye on you during supper, and that despite the fact you've dressed so plainly. You're very considerate of Enora. I hope she appreciates what a good sister she has in you."

* * *

 **IX**

Feyawen returned to the hall just as the meal was being cleared away. She slipped back in, scanning the crowd to see where her sisters had got to. Enora had risen, her hand in Illethor's, ready to lead the dancing. She looked every inch a lady with her piled-up hair and dark russet gown. Lord Nightfury was in the corner talking with a group of men. Theidan, Eyelir, and Faeron were all there, along with two of the invited chieftains, and they didn't look as if they were discussing weddings. As Feyawen glanced at them she met the dark eyes of the unpleasant Jarryn, who was standing on the fringe of the group, looking out over the hall. His gaze passed over her as if she were of no more interest than a piece of furniture, and a mightily boring one at that. Feyawen was mortified to feel her face flush, and turned away to look for her younger sisters.

It seemed one of Illethor's musicians was also a juggler. As the hall was prepared for dancing, this man kept the crowd entertained by tossing his five colored balls in the air while performing an increasingly challenging range of acrobatic tricks. Wenna and Heenia were at the front of the group watching him. Heenia was looking uncharacteristically tidy in a gown Feyawen had sewn for her, pine green with an edging of rabbit fur around the sleeves. Her face was fierce with concentration. Feyawen knew Heenia well enough to recognize that she intended to master the art of juggling as quickly as possible.

Wenna stood further back, her midnight blue gown helping her fade into the shadows. It was not so much that Wenna was shy. With the right person, Faeron for instance, she conversed fluently on any number of erudite matters. Like Feyawen, Wenna loved stories and music. But she had always been different. Her abilities as a seer made her ill at ease in the company of folk like Illethor's family and the visiting nobles, who would expect her to have the interests and opinions of an ordinary girl of twelve. Faeron wanted her to wait until she was at least twenty before she committed herself to life as an oracle. Feyawen was grateful that Wenna would not go away for a few years yet. She was mature beyond her years, at times quite startlingly so, and made a good confidante. With Enora gone, Feyawen would be glad of her presence.

Under instructions from Enora, folk were moving the furniture to make room for dancing. By the goddess, Feyawen was tired. No wonder she had fallen victim to her own imaginings out in the forest earlier; she'd probably been walking along half-asleep. There was a little door not far away leading to a set of stone steps that went up to the roof. In summertime that was a good retreat, with a broad view over the forest of Kalanaar and only passing birds for company. Feyawen slipped through and shut the door behind her. All she needed was a few moments' respite, and then she'd go back and smile for the guests.

It was not quite dark. A lamp had been placed on the bottom step and the sound of music floated down from above, a slow air she had played herself, though not so well as this. She followed the sound up to the first turn of the stair, where she found Nyrell seated with harp on knee and a little frown on his brow. He was dressed up for the festivities in a tunic of dark blue wool with a snowy shirt beneath it, plain good trousers and well-polished boots. His hair was neatly tied at the nape. He looked, if anything, still more handsome than he had earlier. Feyawen recalled the way she had hurtled out of the forest like a screaming banshee, and felt quite awkward. It was a long time since Theidan's last visit here, and she wondered If she had misremembered the degree of interest Nyrell had show in her then. When he saw her he put a hand across the strings and the tune came to an abrupt halt.

"Please don't stop on my behalf," Feyawen said. "It was lovely."

Nyrell made to stand, tucking the harp under an arm.

"Don't get up, please. I'll go if you want to be alone." Feyawen chided herself inwardly for sounding like a child.

Nyrell's cheeks darkened. "I'm just practicing. Theidan expects me to play later. I want to get it right."

"It sounded fine." Feyawen settled herself three steps below him, tucking her skirt around her legs. "That's the tune I taught you last year," she could not help observing.

Nyrell grinned. "Ah, you remembered! Would you listen while I run through it again? Perhaps you'd rather get back to the dancing."

"The dancing can wait," she said, fully aware that it was improper for her to stay here alone with him, but suddenly not caring a bit.

His fingers moved over the strings, and as the tune rang out again she had an odd sensation, as if she were the harp and felt the touch of those hands, gentle but sure. Her thoughts shocked her, and she quickly put such foolish notions out of her head and concentrated on the music. As soon as he was finished she must go straight back.

"Excellent," she said as he reached the end and look at her with a question in his eyes. "You've improved a lot since last year." She hoped her blush was not visible.

"Really?" There was a sweet hesitancy in Nyrell's smile.

"really," she told him, smiling in turn. "I've got my own set of embellishments for the second verse – you could use those for contrast. Shall I show you?"

He passed the harp to her without a word and she demonstrated what she means, biting her lip in concentration. She was not nearly as able a musician as he was, and it was awkward playing on the steps. But Nyrell listened intently, then took the instrument back to try out what she'd suggested.

"If you fetched your own harp, we could perform together," he suggested.

"Maybe another time." This was Enora's night to shine. It would be unfair to her if Feyawen made a show of herself. "I'm expected to go out there and dance. I think I'd better go so before people notice I'm missing."

"Will you dance with me, Feyawen?"

"Oh." Ready words vanished again. "I wasn't hinting – I didn't mean –"

"I know that. Actually, I'm not much of a dancer. You didn't get the opportunity to find out when I was here last time, but I would certainly tread on your toes."

His honesty was disarming. "I'll wager you dance as well as you play," she told him. "I did visit the Isles of Kalidar once, you know. Everyone dances there." Theidan's island community was inhabited by grim warriors and energetic women. The folk of the island worked hard and they put the same vigor into enjoying themselves.

"True, but most do it with more enthusiasm than grace," Nyrell said wryly, descending to her level and offering his free hand to help her down the steps. "If you're willing, I'll give it my best try."


End file.
